


A Year in Timeline 41

by Pennstram



Series: Timeline 41 [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: (not quite) oblivious!Quentin, Bottom Eliot Waugh, Eliot’s bad coping mechanisms, Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, M/M, The timeline that never happened, Top Quentin Coldwater, canon alcoholism, canon depression, insecure!Eliot, references to the books
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-19 02:09:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22036846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pennstram/pseuds/Pennstram
Summary: Life is messy and hard and terrible. It builds you up, and tears you apart. Life at the mosaic was no different.Yet still, at the end of every fight they fell back together and loved through it all.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: Timeline 41 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1593661
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This mixes both book and show canon.  
> IE: The boathouse and In the book the older Physical kids went to Brakebills South at the same time. 
> 
> The only explicit portion will be added in its own chapter (2) and can be skipped over if you don’t wish to read it.

Inspiration playlist: found on ch 4

Life is messy and hard and terrible. It builds you up, and tears you apart. Life at the mosaic was no different. It was smiles and laughs, and tears and pain. 

The first week held high tensions and clipped words. “This is an impossible thing, Eliot.” And yeah, it was, and the argument following escalated to the point of Quentin throwing the papers on the ground and storming away. Eliot sighed in frustration as he bent to pick them up. 

“This is our quest. We have to do it ourselves.” His eyes met Quentin’s and he could see the heat and anger melting away to sad frustration. Even as he turned them back to the tiles he knew this was only the beginning. 

“Yeah but I didn’t think it was going to take a decade.” They could do this. It was their quest. They were chosen for it, they had to at least try. With a hand settled gently on Quentin’s shoulder he said just that, and hoped, beyond all doubt, that it would all work out.  
————

Week two held as much frustration as the first. “God damn it.” Eliot threw himself back on the tiles as number 57 was another failure. Quentin looked over with an almost bored look. “I’m done.” So Eliot was a drama queen when he wanted to be, so what. Quentin merely rolled his eyes and turned his back on him. Gently reminding him not to take it apart before it was recorded. Eliot lifted his arm and stuck his middle finger up at him. 

“Love you too.” Quentin called back sarcastically without ever turning around. 

They took turns. One would place them, the other would direct from their makeshift ladder. Both spots were equally draining by the end of the day. As Quentin stood over the last one that day and nothing happened he let out a frustrated puff of air before grumbling, “ God damn it.” And turning back to where Eliot sat, feet propped up and his flask hanging from limp fingers. 

“I’ll write it down.” And Quentin nodded as he fell into the chair beside Eliot. His eyes were focused on the rainbow of tiles spread before them. And not for the first time he wondered if it was even worth it all anymore. He must have asked it out loud because Eliot snorted into his cup beside him. 

Their eyes met and a grin spread behind the tin cup. “If it isn’t; you owe me big time, Coldwater.”  
————

By the end of week 18 Eliot was losing hope. They now had 350 patterns logged that didn’t work. 350 tries. 350 failures. Quentin was getting restless, they both could feel the tension in the air as the last tiles were slid into place. The wind picked up slightly and their wide eyes met across the color field. 

“Is that—“ but the wind died down and the question died on Eliot’s lips. He sighed and downed a large gulp of Fillorian alcohol. Quentin’s face fell at the same moment anguish washed over him. 

351 tries. 351 failures. 

Quentin threw the book away to the side where it skidded to a stop against the flower bed. The frustrated growl forcing itself out before he could stop it. His nimble hands started ripping up the tiles and depositing them in haphazard piles. Eliot dropped his gaze to the center of the mosaic and sighed, arms wrapping around himself as his voice carried over to his angry companion. 

“We need to take a break, Q.” 

“Don’t.” It was sharp and bitter and Eliot’s eyes darted up to stare at Quentin’s tense back. “We need to keep going. The answer is right there. I can feel it.” With pursed lips Eliot narrowed his eyes and took a step out onto the mosaic. 

“What you feel, Quentin, is exhaustion. What you need is sleep. A break, we could go to the market and start fresh tomorrow.” Another step and the sound made Quentin tense up, his hands gripped a red tile till his knuckles turned white. 

He went no more than two feet before Quentin snarled, “Back off, Waugh.” Shocked and taken aback by the harsh tone Eliot stopped. Hurt seeped in where he knew he should be angry. He should be, but he couldn’t. Not with Q. He took a tentative half step forward, but before his foot made contact with the ground Quentin spun around and flung the tile in his direction. 

It happened so fast. Eliot wasn’t even sure Quentin realized what he was doing but acting on frustrated impulse. One moment the tile was in his hand, the next it was smashed at Eliot’s feet. Blood slowly dripped down from the cut on his forehead where it had originally made contact. He blinked slowly in confusion and Quentin’s mouth fell open in horror as it all caught up to him. 

“Eliot— Oh my god... Eliot, I’m so sorry.” He scrambled to his feet, his wide eyes stricken as he realized just what he had done. Eliot raised his hand to gently dab at the blood oozing down his face. He stumbled backwards a few paces and just stared at the red on his fingers before yanking his gaze back up to his friend. He looked terrified and Quentin was trembling as he blinked and whispered, “I’m so sorry, El. I didn’t— I wasn’t—“ 

Eliot shook his head as he continued to back away. “No.” He turned on his heel and stalked off the ceramic and on to the dirt path leading to the forest and town not far away. His shoulders were tensed and his hand balled into a fist at his side, the other presumably still held in front of him covered in blood. “I’m taking a break.” He muttered before disappearing into the shrubbery. 

Quentin sat frozen in place as he replayed over and over again what happened. Eliot only wanted to help, and he hurt him. It was an accident but it still happened. The shattered red pieces were evidence enough. With shaking hands he picked up the biggest pieces and knit them back together with magic before doing the rest. 

“This is stupid.” He forced out bitterly as he slid into one of the chairs outside their hut. His anger and frustration seeped away to regret and sadness as he waited for Eliot to return. The mosaic ground was cleared away and the tiles neatly stacked ready for tomorrow. It did nothing to help Quentin’s mood. He felt horrible. “I’m so stupid.” He sighed, eyes locked on his hands spread out, palms up, in front of him. 

He hurt his best friend. 

“Normally I’d agree but we’re trying to not hate each other or ourselves at the moment.” Quentin’s eyes shot open and he lurched forward at the soft drawl. Eliot hovered along the edge of the garden, arms wrapped around a pile of fabric. An angry red line stretched across his forehead, just above his right eyebrow. His eyes were red and his cheeks splotchy and Quentin felt sick.

Eliot had been crying. Strong, emotionally balanced Eliot, and he was to blame. “I’m sor—“ an elegant hand was raised as Eliot pursed his lips to cut Quentin off. He shook his head before jerking it in the direction of the hut. He rearranged his grip and leveled Quentin an unreadable look. 

When he spoke it was soft, tired and worn down, “Don’t, Q. I know. Just— help me with this, yeah?” 

“Yeah— uh I— yeah okay.” He stood and opened the door for Eliot to go in first and set his arm load down. His eyebrows furrowed as he looked closer at the pieces. A new bottle of alcohol, but also perfect squares, like the mosaic tiles, of soft fabrics. Eliot stood silently as he watched Quentin examine his acquisition. 

Finally the younger looked up in confusion and asked with a tilt of his head, “What?” Eliot tsk’d with a dramatic roll of his eyes before he shuffled forward and dropped needles and thread on top of the fabric. 

He picked up the bottle and pulled the cork out before sighing, “Really Q, I thought you were much more articulate than that.” His false sense of vibrato seemed to waver as his insecurities broke through. Taking a long swig to calm his nerves he muttered, “I uh— thought we could make a quilt. Something substantial that is evidence of the time here.” He shook his head roughly with a hollow laugh, “It was a stupid idea—“

“No.” Quentin cut him off quickly as a soft rush of affection spread through him. His hand found Eliot’s arm and he smiled gently, “No I like it.”  
—————

6 months, 587 patterns, and it was pouring out. Quentin paced the tiny hut as Eliot laid back on the bed, his eyes were frozen on the ceiling, one hand holding a needle, the other a wine bottle. “How are you so calm about this?” He demanded finally, from the bed there was a deep sigh. 

“We can’t control the weather, Q.” He looked over and dropped the quilt he’d been previously working on. “You go out there you’ll get sick and we’ll be out even more time.” 

“Honestly it seems like you just don’t want to do shit.” He knew he shouldn’t have. He wasn’t thinking. All he wanted to do was hurt Eliot. He spun on his heel and slammed his fist into the door. Eliot watching in an almost disinterested state from the bed. 

“This isn’t about the mosaic anymore, is it?” 

“It’s bullshit, El!” Quentin shoved his back against the door and hunched over to stare at his friend. He glared at the bottle with a deep frown. “You need to put that down.” Eliot’s gaze jumped to it before he slammed it down on the side table. His defiant glare screamed for Quentin to fight him. 

Pushing himself up with only a slight wobble he growled out, “Happy now?” He shoved the bottle off the table to crash on the floor. “Just take away everything I am from before. The only thing that makes a damn difference!”

“You can’t keep going on like this, Eliot!” Quentin screamed back at him, the hurt clear in his eyes as he stalked over and grabbed his shoulders. “I won’t watch you drink yourself into oblivion anymore!” A rough shake that only seemed to disorientate the taller magician more, then softer, “I’m sorry.”

Eliot stares down at the floor, his bottom lip trembling slightly and Quentin could see the storm brewing in his eyes. Quietly, almost a whisper he asked, voice shaking, “Why do you even give a shit?”

“Because I love you, El. I’m sorry I don’t want you killing yourself like this.”  
—————

Life went on. At 8 months in, Eliot stopped counting. They were somewhere in the 600’s... at least. He couldn’t remember and to be completely honest, he didn’t want to. They had all been failures. He stood at the top of the ladder as Quentin set each tile down one by one. “There?” He amused himself by making him second guess every position of the green in his hand. 

“No, there.” He grinned as Quentin glared up at him and dropped the tile in line with the other green ones. “You had it right the first time.” Eliot said loftily. Quentin let out a frustrated noise and swung his arm around, tile in hand and brandishing it at Eliot. 

“You know what? I'll tell you where I'll put this.” It was barely a threat, but the heat in his eyes sent a jolt of longing through Eliot that took him off guard. One hand slipped just so before he repositioned his body into faux casualty that he knew Quentin could see right through. 

Eliot gulped and forced himself to calm down as he shot back, “Yeah? Come at me, Coldwater.” Quentin met his gaze with a question dancing in his eyes. One neither dared to speak aloud. He grinned down at Q, His happy expression mirrored on his friend’s face from where he was sprawled out on the mosaic. 

A rustling off along the side of the patch caught his eye. A young woman carrying a basket approached with a bright smile. “Peaches? Plums?” Eliot felt something cold turn over in his stomach but he brushed it off with a forced smile. “Arielle.” The woman, Arielle, pressed one thin hand to her chest with a smile as she introduced herself. 

“I’m Eliot.” He said with his usual lit as he looked down his nose at the girl. He could see Quentin floundering and sighed quietly, “This is my friend, Quentin.” There was a sour taste the words left but he knew better than to acknowledge it. He knew he wouldn’t like what he found. 

Arielle turned her blinding smile to Quentin and waved with a soft “Hi, there.” That the young magician blinked at and returned with squeak. Another man appeared not a few steps behind her. He was big and muscular, with no sleeves and a look on his face that said no brains as well. “Oh, this is my helper, Lunk.”

Honestly, Eliot was proud of himself as he hid his snort of amusement. Oh yeah, definitely nothing going on up top, at least he was nice to look at. As the two leaned together for a quick kiss, Eliot’s gaze shot to where Quentin was on the ground. He still looked dazed but at least not completely heartbroken. Unbidden a happy little twinge blossomed in his chest.  
—

“So...” Eliot started later that night, both of them laying the last mosaic pattern. The half finished quilt draped over their legs as Eliot sewed on another dark blue swatch. His voice was soft, hesitant, and he continued without looking over at Quentin even though he could feel the curious gaze on his face. “Arielle’s cute.” He pulled the needle through and the thread tight. 

An amused snort came from beside him and he felt Quentin shift just enough to bump his shoulder. There was still an electric current running between them, Eliot knew they both felt it, and the nonchalant brush made him falter on the next thread loop. “I didn’t think she was your type.” Quentin teased softly, brown eyes twinkling as Eliot finally looked up. “Though Lunk maybe—“

“I am appalled, Coldwater.” He gasped in clearly forced resentment, “I much prefer brains with my men, thank you very much.” He punctuated the statement with a quick look over the others body. Trying so very hard to keep his cool, Eliot felt his cheeks flush as Quentin kept his soft gaze on him. The gentle smile seemingly knowing more than what he was letting on. 

The younger magician laid back, arms tucked behind his head and said with an airy smile, “You’re right, you seem to have a more bookish taste.” His eyes were shut but his grin widened as Eliot sputtered beside him. 

“What on Earth— what on Fillory does that mean?” Eliot demanded, leaning over just enough to completely fill Quentin’s line of vision if he chose to open his eyes. He didn’t. The quilt clearly done for the night, was pushed aside and Eliot turned his full attention on Quentin. Who’s eye cracked open just a smidge to watch his friend. 

Satisfied with the taller mans floundering his grin turned wicked as he reached a foot over and gently nudged Eliot’s calf. “You know what I mean, Waugh.” Dark amber eyes narrowed in suspicion as Quentin pat the space beside him. “Jesus, El, just lay down and stargaze with me already.” 

“Your eyes aren’t even open!” He exclaimed with a snorted laugh. Yet he did as instructed and laid down, his head laying on Quentin’s bicep. He folded his hands neatly over his chest and let out a soft contented sigh as he felt the others fingers slowly card through his hair. They’re legs starfished out over the cold tiles, every now and then one would knock their closest feet together.

Eliot was content to fall asleep just like that. Warm in the soft summer air, soft tendrils of warmth flowing from Quentin’s fingers threading his hair and a blossom of happiness in his chest. Eliot was vaguely aware of Q turning his head just enough to brush his lips over his forehead. 

The act itself wasn’t that strange to Eliot. He’d always been comfortable physically showing affection to his friends. It was strange in the way it didn’t feel like when Margo would do it. There was a burning that spread across his skin that just felt— right. “Do you think we’ll keep this?” He asked quietly. 

At some point he had rolled onto his side and one of his arms had found itself draped onto Quentin’s chest. He watched as he wound his fingers in the soft material of Q’s shirt. Quentin seemed to contemplate his question for a moment before he pulled his other arm from behind his head and wound their fingers together. He didn’t say a word, yet as he pressed his lips to Eliot’s hairline again, Eliot knew he didn’t have to.  
—————

The connection between them grew stronger with each gentle touch and soft smile. At the end of each day they would lay together and talk about their friends. Sharing secrets they only trusted the other to hold. They talked about everything, and nothing. Eliot’s head always on Quentin’s arm or chest, Q’s fingers in his hair and a smile on his lips. 

Eliot admitted to his families true origins, the real reason he never returned home like the others. Quentin told him his biggest fear was actually losing to his mind and succeeding in killing himself. He spoke of how his family never understood the struggle and Eliot laced their fingers together because yeah. He did. 

Eliot whispered to the ceiling that he drank to forget how fucked up he really was. How everyone misplaced their trust in him because what could he really do? He admitted that he didn’t feel worthy of the friendships he’d foraged. How he still felt responsible for Mike’s death. 

They both admitted the other made them stronger. Quentin quietly confessed that it was meeting Eliot that fateful at on the Sea that made him question his own sexuality. It was seeing how confident and comfortable in his skin Eliot was that made him finally acknowledge he may not be as straight as he thought. 

That confession earned him nonstop teasing all night, and yet, Eliot’s eyes seemed to soften. He had spent years building the man he currently was, becoming something he hated just a little less. For Quentin to admit he looked up to him and used him as inspiration... it struck him in the most awful of ways. 

The feelings remained unnamed out loud. For fear that once it was acknowledged as such, they’ll never be able to shut it back in its box. He never wanted to shut it again once he felt the glowing warmth for what it really was. 

Eliot loved him. 

As Quentin wrapped his arms around him one night as Eliot sobbed his fears away into his friend’s shoulder, Quentin knew he loved him too.  
—————

At 10 months they had a sort of rhythm and method to their work. Things were deceptively okay as they worked one morning, Eliot laying tiles, Quentin frowning at the pattern book. Of course that would be when the good mood would fizzle again. 

It was the third pattern of the day, 987th total if you’d count back the pages, and the mid day heat was starting to get to them. Quentin’s eyes narrowed and he flipped halfway back in the book of patterns. “We’ve done this one before.” He bit out finally, landing on the page he wanted. Eliot froze, his hands grasped a yellow tile before he spun around to eye his partner. 

“Excuse me?” It was clipped, harsh even to his own ears but he couldn’t help it. As Quentin threw the book at him Eliot stared at the open page. They had. Back in the 500’s. “Fuck.” He hissed under his breath before shoving the book away and slamming the tile down. “How could you have been so stupid to redo a design?” 

He knew he shouldn’t have been so harsh, after so many failures it was easy to forget. Eliot didn’t feel like being nice though. Truth be told he wanted to hurt Quentin’s feelings. Arielle had been around again yesterday. Her and Q had been getting close, to the point that Eliot often found himself at the mosaic alone to work. The easy companionship was stretching thin and Eliot hated it. 

He needed Quentin to feel something for him. Even if I’m this moment it was hatred. “El...” the sigh was barely heard but Eliot slowly closed his eyes and sat back on his heels. He needed to clear his head. It wasn’t Quentin’s fault. It was no ones fault. “You don’t mean that.” The voice was closer than Eliot expected and his eyes blinked open to Quentin standing in front of him. 

His arms were wrapped loosely around his middle and there was a hurt look on his face. Eliot felt his resolve melt away and his shoulders slumped forward. “No... I don’t.” A warm hand reached out and laid on the side of his neck, Quentin’s thumb ran over his pulse point and Eliot was ashamed at how easily he gave in.

Their eyes met and Eliot sucked in a breath at the pure, unhindered affection in Quentin’s eyes. “It’s time for a break.” The way he said it left no room for arguments and Eliot found— he had none. He didn’t want to work on this stupid mosaic anymore. He was done. Reaching an arm up to get up, Quentin took his hand and pulled him to his feet. 

Before Eliot had a chance to even move away Quentin was reaching up and gently cupping his face in both hands. “Look. I know it’s been rough, El, but we’ll get through this. I know we will, because we can do anything together.” He ran his thumbs over Eliot’s cheekbones and smiled softly, eyes warm as the sun, “We’ll take the rest of the day and start again tomorrow, alright?”  
—

The day found them at the river not far from the hut. Eliot sunning himself on a flat rock jutting out into the water as Quentin collected pebbles and colorful rocks from the river bed. The pile by Eliot’s left leg grew to the point that it toppled over, causing him to look down at it disdainfully before drawing his gaze up to Quentin with a raised eyebrow. 

“Really, Q?” Quentin shrugged with a lopsided smile. Eliot only rolled his eyes and picked up an emerald colored stone. As he rolled it in his fingers Quentin waded over and leaned against the rock, arms folded neatly in front of him beside Eliot’s thigh. “Why, exactly are you collecting rocks, you strange little magpie?” Another half hearted shrug. 

Looking down at his folded arms Quentin opened his hand and a smooth stone of rose quartz rolled out. Both watched where it bumped against Eliot’s skin and came to rest there. Warm, despite the cool water, and reflecting the light in the prettiest of ways. “I just thought... I don’t know.” Eliot hummed in consideration before picking up the pink stone. 

Quentin grinned up at him before continuing on, “Do you remember the times back in the very beginning? When we’d go down to that old boathouse and just dick around?” Eliot’s face broke out into a wide grin as he looked up at Quentin. 

“Oh how I do. We wasted so much vodka down there.”

“Remember all those stupid snail shells I collected for you?” It was said through a body shaking laugh and Eliot couldn’t help but join in.

“You were drunk off your ass, Q. Said they had magical healing powers.” He’d collected so many of them for Eliot. To help him stop drinking and doing drugs. Eliot had been touched, no one, not even Margo had gone to those lengths for him. Clearly the magic was lost on the fact they were both plastered. 

He never told Quentin he had kept one. 

“Well, like those shells, that were clearly hindered, I say these rocks are magical too.” He looked so proud of himself and Eliot couldn’t help the fond smile that morphed his features as he turned the pink stone over in his hand. 

“I’m keeping this one.”  
—————

Exactly 12 months later they tried 4 more patterns. Each one a failure. Eliot could see Quentin getting stressed. He could feel it coming off in waves even as he stood above his partner on the ladder. The latest spiral pattern seemed to rotate toward him in swirls if greens, blues and yellows. 

Dejectedly Eliot drew it in the book before closing it and dropping it at the foot of the ladder. The noise barely reached Quentin as he flopped back on the quilt spread out along the left half of the mosaic. “How, can it really be this hard?” He demanded as he threw his arm over his eyes. Eliot came to drop beside him a few moments later. 

It was just after mid day, but neither felt much motivation to work anymore on the impossible puzzle. Eliot fiddled with the edge of the quilt, twining a stray thread around his finger over and over again. Quentin reaches his free hand over and set it on top of Eliot’s knee. It was an absent minded gesture but the jolt of warmth that flooded Eliot’s senses was instant.

He wasn’t quite sure when he had fallen so hard for the younger magician. All he knew was that he did. He loved him with every fiber of his being. He laid his hand on top of Quentin’s with a soft slow smile. Not for the first time he wondered just how much this will change when, if, they get back to their own time. Will Quentin still smile at him with that devoted look in his eyes? Will he still want to be in Eliot’s presence once he has Alice again? They had slept together once while high on the feeling of their feelings returning. What if that really was all it was to Quentin, a massive regret not to be thought of again. The last thought left the acidic taste of bile in his throat. 

Not for the first time he wondered if this easy companionship was just a replacement while Q was away from her. If he often covered his face or closed his eyes while physically holding Eliot because he was imagining Alice’s body in his arms. It made him want to scream. To demand answers, yet he also refused to break the illusion. If Quentin was thinking of her, Eliot didn’t want to break it for fear of him never being held so lovingly again. 

They stayed like that for at least an hour, both quiet in their own thoughts. Eliot’s spiraling deeper and deeper into despair as his mind told him vicious lies. 

He was an idiot for believing this was real. That this could be real. That they could live happily together. 

That Quentin would ever love him. 

“You’re thinking too loud, El.” The soft voice shattered Eliot’s latest spiral. The hand on his knee moved to rest on his waist, the warmth moving with it to spread up his side and back. Quentin’s thumb ran over his side as he peaked under his arm at Eliot. “What’s got you so melancholic all of a sudden?” His voice was gentle, a warmth radiating from it to soothe over Eliot. 

The silence kept on for a while more and Quentin seemed to realize he wasn’t going to answer. With a frown he rolled over on his side and propped his head up on one hand. “Eliot.” Forgoing a response Eliot smoothed out the edge of the quilt and pushed himself to his feet. Quentin’s frown deepened as his hand slid off Eliot’s side to hit the ground. “El, what’s the matter?”

Eliot shook his head, wild curls falling out of place. His eyes were trained on the ground in a vacant stare as he licked his bottom lip and sighed. Nothing came out. He wanted so badly to explain what he was thinking. He wanted so badly to put the voices to rest. He shrugged instead and turned toward the forest. “I just need a minute, Q.” He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t break whatever it was they had. 

“Eliot—“ but he was gone, his shoulders hunched and gait somber. Quentin slowly eased back onto his back and stared at the bright sky. His heart was beating wildly and his stomach was in his throat and he wanted to cry. Whatever was going on in Eliot’s head it wasn’t good and Quentin could do nothing to help. He must have done something wrong. 

Not long later he got up and set about fixing whatever it was he’d broken in his friend. He went into the hut and just stood in the doorway. His gaze on the window sill by the table, where the small rose quartz shown in the fading light. Instantly he knew.  
—

Eliot dropped to sit on a fallen tree log about 30 feet into the woods. He felt tears drop off his chin and he hated himself for it. Scrubbing his face off he let out a frustrated growl. “What the fuck is wrong with me?” He demanded to no one but himself. He kicked up leaf litter with one foot and picked at the peeling wood. 

He had the opportunity to come clean. To tell Quentin everything in his heart. Everything that’s been growing since the first time they accidentally slept together. To admit that night was less of a regret everyday. 

It was getting dark by the time Eliot gave up sulking in a woe is me way. He figured he owes Quentin an apology, if not an explanation, but the thought of it made fresh tears burn at the corners of his eyes. Slowly he pushed himself off the log and wished, not the first time, that he hadn’t given up alcohol. He slowly picked his way back to the mosaic, the torches lighting the edges a soft glow in the distance. 

It was his fault for ever getting attached to the young magician. For developing misplaced feelings he couldn’t seem to take back. The bright tiles came into view before he realized, his gaze never once lifting from the ground. And then he heard a throat clear and he had no choice. Their eyes met and Quentin smiled tentatively where he stood in the center of the mosaic.

The quilt was spread out at his feet, a candle flickering in the center with two bowls of stew and bread beside it. “It isn’t much but I figured we should celebrate.” It was then Eliot noticed Quentin’s hands were behind his back as the shorter man grinned and pulled them out. He held a small bottle of wine like one Eliot had found at a market back in month 4. One that was surprisingly good, though not nearly strong enough. “We made it a whole year already.” 

Numbly Eliot nodded, took his shoes off and stepped over to sink down on the makeshift picnic, “Thank you.” He managed finally, looking up just as Quentin came over to join him. The answering smile melted Eliot’s heart just so. They ate in mostly silence, the sounds of the night a gentle lullaby to soothe them. “I’m sorry about earlier.” He said finally as he set his empty bowl aside.

His hands wrapped around his tin cup filled with the sweet wine as Quentin looked at him with eyebrows raised. “Don’t be. I should know better than anyone sometimes you need space.” Eliot felt choked up at the admission and hid it by clearing his throat and sitting up straighter. 

They cleared off the quilt and sat back, bodies propped up by their arms stretched out behind them. Raising his hand he said with forced calm, “Happy anniversary, Q.” He clinked his glass to Quentin’s before saying almost as an afterthought, “To our first and last year at this thing.” They sat in silence for a few minutes. Quentin has a nervous look on his face as he watched his friend that had Eliot’s heart rate picking up. 

The silence was comfortable and warm in a way it hadn’t been in so long. Finally Quentin’s voice broke through Eliot’s humming thoughts, his gaze open and earnest. “Hey.”

It was simple and begged him to reply so Eliot smiled slightly and turned just so to whisper back a soft “Hey.” In return. He didn’t expect anything more but suddenly Quentin was leaning over and pressing their lips together. 

He pulled back a second later, face flushed bright red and stuttering but Eliot couldn’t hear over the soft roar in his ears. He blinked a few times before he realized what just happened. Not one to let something like this slip by twice he reached out and placed one hand on Quentin’s neck and pulled him back in. He set his other hand on top of Quentin’s on the quilt and he smiled into it as their mouths came together again. 

It was gentle, and hesitant, in much the same way most first kisses were. Except this wasn’t their first kiss. Nor their second or even third, and though it lit up every nerve ending Eliot couldn’t help it. As they pulled apart to breathe he tangled his fingers with Quentin’s in the blanket and moved his thumb across his jawline. “Hey.” He repeated softly in a daze.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pure smut. Oops.

There was electricity sparking between them and a fire burned low in Eliot’s belly at the pure hunger in Quentin’s eyes. Eliot found himself being pushed back to lay down as Quentin kissed him again, his hands coming up to hold the back of Eliot’s neck. A soft groan escaped his lips before it was swallowed down with a smile. 

Just like that the thread that was pulling tight between them snapped and Eliot’s desperate hands found themselves yanking Quentin’s shirt over his head. His body arching as Quentin’s hand shoved its way under his shirt. With a high pitched keen as the hand brushed his nipple, Eliot finally gasped out, “Want you, Q.” He was panting heavily and his hand was now buried in Quentin’s hair to pull their mouths together again. 

It was messy, and uncoordinated and by Gods the hottest thing Eliot had experienced to date. “Oh fuck-“ Quentin breathed as he finally got Eliot’s shirt over his head and placed both hands on his soft sides. He leaned over to press their foreheads together and groaned as Eliot arched in just the right way to bring their clothed erections together. “Fuck-“ he gasped out again, fingers digging into overheated skin. 

“I’m trying but you aren’t seeming to get the picture.” Eliot retorted breathlessly as his head fell back onto the scrunched up quilt. Quentin couldn’t help the laugh that escaped before he brought one hand to open Eliot’s pants. His breath hitched and he arched up into it as Quentin’s hand brushed over him. There was a soft murmur of words and suddenly it was burning skin on burning skin. “Fuck.”

It was a broken gasp as Quentin wrapped his hand around him and brought the other up to cup his cheek. Eliot kissed him greedily, like a man touch starved and needy. “W-where did you learn tha-a-t.” A smile was pressed to his throat as Quentin grinned and mouthed down the long expanse of skin given to him. 

“Baby, that’s not the only thing I learned.” It was whispered so reverently into the skin at his throat and Eliot moaned, bucking his hips up into Quentin’s fist. “Do you remember that time— with Mayakovsky, the whole fox thing?” A quick jerk of his head as Eliot bit his lip, stifling a whimper as Quentin’s hand travelled down his neck to his shoulder and chest. 

He stopped there to gently press his thumb to the hardened nub and lovingly caressed it in time with the movement of his hand on Eliot’s dick. He brought their cheeks to press together before whispering hotly in Eliot’s ear. “I smelled you first. Wanted to chase after you but couldn’t.” A quick twist of the wrist before sliding back down, “I smelled it, and could only think of you as I fucked her there in the snow.” 

Eliot’s body was tingling and on fire at Quentin’s panted out confession. “And every time after,” his hand drifted further down his body before coming to rest on Eliot’s exposed ass. He gripped it and smiled victoriously into Eliot’s neck at the mantra of ‘yes’ and ‘gods please’ that came from the older magician. “I fucked into her willing body, imaging it was you beneath me. Begging me to take you apart. All because of one smell. She thought it was her scent that drove me wild but oh no—“ 

He drug his teeth over the soft flesh of Eliot’s neck and tightened his grip on his cock. “It was all you.” 

“Quentin.” Eliot gasped, arching off the ground and digging his heels into the quilt. “Fuck, Q...” Quentin’s hands were no longer on his body and Eliot let out a needy whine that had he any decency he’d deny later on. He was hyper aware of everything the others body did and he could feel the magic crackle in the air long before he felt the effects on his body. “Ah—ha... d-did you just magically lube my ass?” He demanded breathlessly.

Quentin pressed a soft kiss to his neck in reply. “It was the first spell I mastered after returning to the cottage. Wanted to make it real. Make it easier to imagine. Fuck, El, I could still smell you and she had no problems with it.” And Eliot found he didn’t care either, already loose and open and desperate. And then a finger was pressing into him and he couldn’t think anymore. 

“Q— please.” He didn’t know what it was he was begging for anymore. He needed. He needed Quentin in him. He needed to hear the filthy things Quentin thought about. He needed to know it had always been him. He needed. 

Eliot felt the world tilt around him and suddenly he found himself being pressed into the quilt face down. He let out a breathy moan and tried pushing back against the solid warmth of Quentin behind him. His hands bunched into the soft fabric and he cried out as Quentin shoved three fingers deep into him and draped his body over Eliot’s lean back. 

“It’s always been you, El.” Quentin whispered softly, lovingly, as he placed gentle kisses over his shoulder blades. He worked his hand a few moments more before pulling away. “I’ve thought of this moment so much in our other life.” He pushed in with a soft sigh, pressing his lips to the shell of Eliot’s ear. “Never thought I’d be able to— Thought I’d always be stuck imagining.” 

A deep thrust forward and Eliot forced out, with a breathy stutter, “You didn’t say anything that night.” A vibrating laugh as Quentin found a steady rhythm, fucking his friend, partner? Lover? Into the mosaic they’ve centered their new lives around. Eliot’s body craved the warm intimacy and he pushed back onto Quentin’s cock before pressing his back up against his chest, effectively making them both sit up. Instantly Quentin’s arms wrapped around him and held him there as he breathed into the side of his neck. 

The new position made Quentin slide in deeper than before and Eliot basked in the feeling. The feeling of being so full. If being stretched open so thoroughly. Of having Quentin so close to him, so far in him, that they were practically one being. He loved it. He craved it.

“You didn’t either.” Quentin whispered back, grinding his hips up against Eliot’s ass and dragging his lips against his skin. And he was right. Eliot didn’t say a word. Even as Quentin had his dick in his mouth, he never voiced how much he wanted to fuck him. How much he longed to bend over and let Quentin fuck him. And oh God how he wanted. 

“I am now.” Eliot gasped out as Quentin hit his prostrate from the new angle. “Fuck me, Coldwater. Fuck me like you’ve wanted too all alo—“ before he could get the rest out he heard a heated, desperate snarl and felt Quentin sink his teeth into his shoulder. He cried out and chocked back a moan as he was shoved to the ground. The hands on his hips the only thing keeping him from melting to the ground as Quentin pounded into him at an almost brutal pace. Giving them both what they craved dearly.


	3. Chapter 3

Soft hands ran over his aching body and Eliot blinked up at Quentin’s tender smile. “Hey.” He said softly, brushing his lips against Eliot’s hairline. He vaguely realized they were in the hut now, curled together under the quilt. He felt pleasantly sore in all the right places and he smiled lazily at Quentin as he brought a hand up to gently caress his neck. 

He didn’t say anything, but he knew Quentin understood. He knew he didn’t have to.  
———————

Of course that wasn’t the end of it. Life is messy and unpredictable. It’s never tied up perfectly with a happy little bow. Tensions rose and ebbed like the waves on an ocean front. They fought, and screamed and cried. They slept together, and made love sweetly and devotedly. Eliot channeling his emotions however he could, and Quentin complying reverently. 

They fucked in anger and bitter resentment. Quentin taking his pain out in a way they both understood, Eliot accepting it as a penance for the past. They hated each other but wouldn’t give up, because at the end of the day this is what they had. Each other. 

They grew apart, and back again. Quentin left for a month and reappeared just as suddenly as he’d gone, their easy rhythm never faltering. They had Arielle, and then she was gone and they fought harder than they ever had before. Quentin threw things and cursed Eliot’s very being, screaming it was his fault Arielle had left. Eliot— Eliot agreed. He admitted that night as they sat side by side by the mosaic. He confessed he believed he was holding Quentin back. That life would be better without him. He drank an entire bottle of wine that night. 

And Quentin made love to him out on the mosaic. Much like the first time, but oh so softer. As if Eliot were the most precious thing in the world to him. And maybe he was. Maybe they were both right. Maybe Arielle told the truth in that note, that she and Quentin would never have what they did. 

“I love you, Q.”

They had a family that wasn’t enough, but oh so much more. They argued and grew old and held on tight to Teddy. On to each other. 

“I love you too, El.”

At the end of the day, they loved each other. 

They loved, and cherished and cared for each other. At the end of every fight they fell back together and loved through it all.


	4. Playlist

Inspiration playlist:  
Falling Slowly- Glen Hansard & Markéta Irglová  
How do I get there- Deana Carter  
Don’t close your eyes- Keith Whitley  
I don’t wanna fight- Westlife  
Broken Frame- Alex & Sierra  
Medicine- Bring me the Horizon  
Someone you Loved- Conor Maynard  
Forever and Ever, Amen- Randy Travis  
Sick of Losing Soulmates- Dodie  
Fools- Lauren Aquilina


End file.
